


What You're Good For

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Hook, BDSM, Bondage, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Only Aramis would think that an acceptable present for Porthos’ birthday is, well, himself."</p><p>Kink Bingo fill: sex toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You're Good For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mackem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/gifts).



> For [Mackem](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mackem/), who keeps insisting on having the best ideas, and enabling me thoroughly.
> 
> There's absolutely no evidence I can find to suggest historical use of anal hooks, but Aramis is filthy enough that I wouldn't put it past him to have invented one.

Only Aramis would think that an acceptable present for Porthos’ birthday is, well, himself.

Porthos isn’t exactly complaining, mind. It’s certainly better than having a melancholy spell at one in the morning and wandering off to one of his old haunts, and then promptly getting framed for murder.

Better to have been doing this last year, too, and a good few of the days in between; and every year they’ve known each other. In fact, he tries not to think about how long they could have been doing this if only he’d even bloody realised it was _possible_. It makes his head swim a little, as if he’s been out in the sun too long.

This year, Aramis waited until the party was in full enough swing that nobody would notice the absence of the ‘birthday boy’ – as he’d insisted on calling him all evening – before dragging Porthos upstairs to one of the unused bedrooms by a proprietary hand on the wrist, sitting him down on the bed there and handing him the bundle he’d secreted underneath, with that particular smile he has that Porthos has long known means Aramis has an exciting new idea up his sleeve, and he wants to draw Porthos into whatever he’s got planned.

Rather more recently, these ideas have involved a lot more nakedness and a lot more orgasms, a development of which Porthos finds he’s thoroughly in favour.

Aramis has often said, in his more expansive moments (and when Porthos leaves his mouth free for him to say so), that Porthos is a natural at these sorts of things. He’s the right mix of practical and imaginative, apparently; and Porthos finds himself agreeing that he seems to have something of a talent for looking at all of the strange, intriguing objects Aramis introduces him to and knowing exactly what he wants to do with them.

Aramis’ newest toy proved a bit less self-evident than most (“All the rage in Florence,” Aramis told him. “I had it specially made. I told the carpenter it was a Spanish fishing rod, can you believe it?”), and Aramis had to show him how the wide end of the smooth, lacquered wood went inside him, curving snugly round between his arse cheeks as if it’s been made to measure – and Porthos suspects it probably has. The inlaid ring came neatly to rest in the small of Aramis’ back, and he’d brought along a length of fine hemp rope for Porthos to tie his hands to it with; but it was Porthos’ idea to use his bandana as a gag, plaiting the ends as he does when he’s wearing it round his own head, and tying them securely to the end of the rope so that Aramis’ head is pulled firmly back, arching his body and baring his throat.

There’s just about enough room on the narrow bed for them both to lie on their sides, facing each other, though it’s a tight fit; and Porthos puts a steadying hand on Aramis’ waist as he tells him he has to make himself come, and that Porthos will just be here watching him, and enjoying the show.

“Glad we’ve found something you’re good for at last,” Porthos says, unable to help grinning to himself as Aramis’ groan of objection turns to one of pleasure. His hands are slippery with sweat and the oil he used to open himself up for the hook, and Porthos knows the combination of that and the angles involved will make it near-impossible for Aramis to get sufficient purchase on the end of the hook to fuck himself as hard, as steadily as he’d like, only managing to jostle the end of the wood inside him, his frustration only building his arousal.

In just a few short months, Porthos has come to learn that Aramis loves this more than anything: being restrained, being teased, being denied; straining against his bonds, being overpowered, having to work for his pleasure. Loving, perhaps, having found someone whom he trusts to make him helpless – knowing that Porthos’ working knife is never far from his hand should he need it, knowing that Porthos knows the exact combination of sounds that mean _stop, set me free_ , and that Porthos would never hesitate for a moment should he hear them.

Porthos looks Aramis lazily up and down, drinking him in – the taut lines of his throat and the set of his shoulders as he tries and fails to hold onto the end of the hook; how he’s constantly quivering and shifting, the now-regular stream of moans and whines he’s making deep in his throat, only half muffled by the gag; the thin string of fluid dripping slowly from the tip of his prick like sugar syrup – and he shifts up the bed a bit so he can meet Aramis’ eyes, and says conversationally, “You know, I’m not sure I locked the door.”

At the edges of his vision, he sees Aramis’ cock jump.

Porthos sometimes wonders if it’s big-headed of him to think that Aramis has finally met his match – he’s no great charmer, and sometimes he envies all Aramis’ beautiful ladies their haughty refinement and practiced flirtations, how they love to play the game as much as he does. But then he remembers how Aramis’ eyes lose focus and he bucks his hips against him as Porthos pins him to the ground; how laughter turns to kisses turns to Porthos working Aramis open with whatever’s at hand (lamp oil, butter, and on one memorable occasion, still-warm duck fat left over from dinner) and fucking him deep and rough; how he knows Aramis better than anybody, and what’s more, knows exactly how to use that knowledge against him.

“I hope nobody comes looking for us,” Porthos continues, with a wicked glint in his eye, reaching out to run a finger down the side of the tendon that’s standing out on Aramis’ neck, so gently it almost tickles. “There’s just about room for me to get under the bed, but I don’t see you going anywhere fast. I’m not sure even you could talk your way out of this one either.”

His finger slides down Aramis’ chest and across to one nipple, circling the edge of it thoughtfully; and Aramis whimpers with need, the speed of his desperate writhing increasing.

“Hmm. It seems you like that idea,” Porthos replies, in pretended wonder – as if he’s only just discovering it, as if this is the first time they’ve ever played this game. “Gorgeous little slut, ain’t you? Just love being looked at while you fuck yourself.”

Porthos drags his finger down across Aramis’ stomach – and stops abruptly.

Aramis groans in protest, saying something sharply through the fabric in his mouth (Porthos can’t make out the exact words, but it’s something like “Fucking _touch_ me, will you”), and trying to look down; but he gives a pained moan almost immediately as the movement pulls the rope taut and the hook even deeper inside him, and snaps his head back.

Porthos just smiles sweetly, as if he has no idea what Aramis could possibly mean; and runs his finger along the crease at Aramis’ groin, carefully avoiding his flushed and leaking cock where it rests rock-hard against his other thigh, grin widening as Aramis jerks under his touch.

“I wonder,” Porthos muses aloud, licking his lips deliberately and grinning again as Aramis’ eyes track the movement like it’s something hypnotic, “is it just me you like showing off for, or would anybody do? I could always go downstairs, see who’s still around?”

Aramis’ eyes grow almost impossibly wide, and the groan this draws from him tells Porthos, with a flush of inner satisfaction, that he’s hit his mark.

“D’Artagnan’s probably still going down there,” he continues, leaning in closely enough for Aramis to feel his breath on his face, “you know how he likes a party. You’re always talking about teaching him a thing or too, remember? Though I’m not sure he’s quite ready for _this_. He might even be too scandalised to like it – but I’m probably not giving him enough credit.

“Or what about Athos? You know, I’m not sure you could do anything that would surprise him any more. He’d just stand in the doorway and watch you fuck yourself on this lovely piece of wood –” Porthos reaches an arm over Aramis’ waist to pull lightly on the ring, making him whimper with need – “like he didn’t care. Like he wasn’t rock hard in his breeches just from looking at you.”

Unable to resist touching Aramis any longer, Porthos moves his arm up to thread his fingers through his hair, just below the knot securing the bandana, and pulls. “Or I might be wrong about him too. Maybe he’d get his cock out right there and get himself off on looking at you all hard and desperate, make use of the free show.”

“Now there’s another thought,” Porthos muses, pretending to consider for a moment, knowing well the effect of keeping Aramis in suspense. “I wonder what _Tréville_ would do.”

Aramis stiffens abruptly and comes with a shuddering wail, shooting half over his stomach and half over his shirt where it lies bunched up beneath his hip, eyes locked on Porthos’ as he trembles through the aftershocks.

Porthos grins in delight, leaning in to kiss Aramis’ lips where they’re parted around the fabric of his bandana. “Now _that_ I was not expecting.”

Aramis closes his eyes, groaning again – this time, not quite with pleasure.

Once Porthos has undone the knot securing Aramis’ gag and pulled the fabric away, the first thing Aramis does is to look at him defensively and mutter, “Just – don’t.”

Porthos quirks an eyebrow, unable to fully repress his smile. “Hmm?”

“I know, I know,” Aramis replies, with the air of one who’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “It’s just – he’s so _stern._ Disapproving.”

“Unachievable?”

Aramis sighs. “You know me too well.”

“Apparently.” Porthos kisses him again, parting his lips and licking his way into Aramis’ mouth. He tastes of wine and Porthos’ hair oil, and Porthos feels suddenly intoxicated by it, all over again. “Now, do you need your hands free for the next bit?”

The look he gets in return is distinctly unimpressed. “ _Please_.”

“Fair enough,” Porthos replies, shifting himself up the bed to kneel by Aramis’ mouth, hands going to the buttons at his breeches as Aramis licks his lips. “Knew you had to be good for something.”

“I’m good for a lot,” Aramis objects immediately.

Porthos grins. “Prove it.”

And he pushes his cock forward into Aramis’ waiting mouth, where he proves himself _thoroughly_ , and to Porthos’ full satisfaction.


End file.
